Impulsion
by My Fearless Spirit
Summary: The Holy Land in 1192 is still a land wrecked with corruption and greed as the 3rd Crusade nears its end. Worse yet, the assassins' secrets are being revealed and old enemies are rising as Altair and Malik discover not everything is as it seems. Altair/OC
1. Prologue

**(A/N) Hello readers! I am very excited to present my first fanfic . . . ever (ta-da!). I absolutely love the storylines that Ubisoft has created for their assassin's creed characters (however, in altair's case it is more like the lack thereof), anyways, I was inspired to write this fanfic which will be set in the Holy Land during Altair's time. Now moving on to more technical issues, I have tried to do a lot of research on this time period, but there may be times that I might use my writer's privilege and change things for my own purpose, however, I would love any help on the matter of getting my facts straight. I love history, but I am nowhere near being an historian! Also, I try and proofread my work many times, but there may be times I miss . . . so I apologize beforehand if any have escaped my attention.  
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**DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of Ubisoft's characters. I wish I did, but I don't. If I did, I would hide Altair in my room, and lick him once a day. =)  
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**So without further ado, my first ever fanfic . . . please don't flame me!

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**_Prologue_**

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_Acre, 1176_

"_Assassin!"_

The shrill cries of panic pierced the silence of Acre like an arrow cutting into human flesh. It was surprising, quick, but painful. Guards patrolled the streets swiftly, carrying torches to illuminate the paths. Their eyes scanned for the telling white robes, a splash of red, and the heavy weapon arsenal that their enemies carried on their backs. The townspeople peeked out their doors and windows, caught between their desires to catch sight of the infamous white figures and their fear of death and injury from the same.

No one paid notice to the woman that had cried the alert.

She lay in the shadows, breath coming in small pants as she pressed her hands to the mortal wound in her midsection. The blood spilled through her fingers onto the faded colors of her skirt and shirt. It seemed to sparkle as the torches passed. It touched her senses. The feel of it in her hands, the smell of it filling her nose, and the taste of it as she bit her tongue in pain. It was _everywhere_.

He had condemned her to this slow, agonizing death hoping to bring her to her knees even in death. She wanted to laugh and proclaim into the heavy night air that she had won. Single-handily, she had destroyed his dreams of position and power by stealing their daughter away many weeks ago. Although it was his blade that had punctured her stomach, it was her instincts and intelligence that had hid their daughter away. She pictured her daughter sleeping peacefully—secure and safe—in the arms of her new guardian. She could not bring herself to call the woman her daughter's mother, because she relished the title, holding it close.

She wanted to hold on to the image of her precious daughter as she slipped away, but perhaps it was true what they said about death. A deathly blow could bring grown men to their knees wanting the sweet release death could deliver. Women could weep their tears wishing for the ignorant bliss that it could provide. Children could fall innocently into its welcoming arms. Yes, death could do all of those things, but it also brought the realization of one's own mortality. During the last minutes of life, a human reflects on the journey that brought them there. Closing her eyes, prayer on her lips, she let death steer her down the path to relive her memories before it took her deep into its dark arms.

_**Our Father, which art in heaven,**_

_**hallowed be thy name;**_

_Jerusalem, 1168_

_ Sabrina swore she could hold the air in her hands, tossing it back and forth like an apple. It was so hot. Kicking her legs around and huffing, she finally stilled in the middle of her bed. She could not handle the heat anymore. Casting a studious look at her latched windows, she leapt up from her bed to open them. Once the wooden shutters—the ones her father had requested be place on her window immediately—were open, she stuck her head out to take a breath of the cool, fresh air._

_ She wanted to groan at the warmth that even resided outside; however, the openness of her room seemed to help her own psyche and made it manageable to lie down once again. It was still hot, but there was a slight breeze—very slight—that was blowing in. Doing all she could do to relieve her frustration, she closed her eyes determined to get some sleep before the sun rose._

_ The market place could be browsed, the gardens tended, and social visits could be paid. Tomorrow had endless possibilities—what was that?_

_ Sabrina shot up from her bed, and ran to the window. She had heard footsteps coming from somewhere close, yet the night was still and silent. Maybe it was a trick of her mind, she tried to convince herself, but as she was walking back to her bed, she heard it again._

_ Her head was sticking out her window instantaneously, trying to redeem herself in her own eyes, but once again, she saw or heard nothing. Giving up, she turned around again and let out a loud gasp at the heap of white robes that was pressed against the wall below her window._

_ A pair of golden eyes focused on her from beneath the shadows of a white hood._

_**thy kingdom come;**_

_**thy will be done,**_

_Jerusalem, 1168_

_ His strong, muscled arms encircled her as they lay in her bed. Sabrina trailed a fingertip across his chest, looking up into his dark eyes. It had been blissful, magical, and . . . lovely. She tucked her head in-between the crook of his neck, and smiled. They had shared their first night together, with only the small amount of moonlight shining through the cracked shutters. It had been mysterious and forbidden. She shook her head, trying to rid herself of all the words she was grasping and trying to use to describe what her first time had been like. Instead of trying to put into words what she was feeling, she would lie here in her lover's arms and simply enjoy what she was feeling . . . the beat of his heart, the smell of sweat and their lovemaking, and even the feel of his skin against hers. This was heaven, she was sure of it. He was her heaven._

_ She felt his lips touch her forehead, and felt desire course through her veins again. His fingers stood out among her pale skin, but he trailed it along her shoulder before rubbing a blonde curl in-between his fingertips. The Sabrina that had threatened him with heavy metal of a candlestick holder the night he had jumped in through her window, would have thought herself insane now for the actions she had committed tonight. However, she would not feel guilty for this. Never._

_ "I love you," she finally whispered into the night air._

_ "You barely know me," he replied after a few seconds, his voice tinged with something she could not identify. Cynicism? Disbelief? Anger?_

_ Pulling back to look once more into the dark eyes—sometimes golden when he first arrived—she shook her head. "I know you enough to love you."_

_**in earth as it is in heaven.**_

_**Give us this day our daily bread.**_

_Somewhere near Damascus, 1169_

_ Sabrina studied the glinting light that the sun was casting on her golden band. Her hand felt heavy and odd, but she vowed to herself that she would never remove the ring. It was a symbol of her promises to the man that rode beside her, but also a symbol of his love for her._

_ He loved her. She practically squeezed herself from the sheer delight of it. The handsome man that was but a few feet away from her was her husband. Mine, she thought, and snuck a glance at his harsh profile as he kept a protective eye on the horizon. He was constantly on the watch for a threat._

_ Looking back down at her white, smooth hands, she took a deep breath. There were still many miles to travel until they reached their destination, Masyaf. He had told her about his home that he shared with others. A large castle tucked into a hill. It was private and sacred, he said. She had wanted to complain at first about the lack of privacy if they were to live with others, but he had later explained that it was necessary to what he did._

_ Assassin. She whispered the word in her mind, feeling the wickedness and violence of it even though she had not said it aloud. He killed the evil doers in the world that threatened to corrupt the world of its goodness. He was not a Saracen soldier as she had previously imagined, but a man that stood apart from the foolish crusades that had brought her family to this land in the first place. He and his brothers, he had passionately lectured her, were the only ones that stood between evil men and the innocent._

_ She compared him to a knight, and she was his lady. He rode proudly into battle with his weapons nearby, and her love in his heart. It was all so romantic. Something her parents could never understand when she tried to tell them of their love and their wish to marry. Her mother had wept loudly as she pulled away from Sabrina's arms, calling her a whore. While her father had held his blade to her lover's neck, calling him a string of names, but when he moved to adjust his hold on the threatening blade, Sabrina's lover maneuvered the weapon from his hands. She had left with him listening to her mother's cries to return, while her father yelled of his disownment of his only daughter._

_ She could withstand it all for her romantic hero, her courtly knight. Returning her gaze to the bright landscape that rose before her, she felt her love for him grow within her heart. She would cherish every moment with him._

_ Yet, Sabrina did not realize that while knights rode into battle, their enemies riding toward them in traditional warfare. Her husband snuck among the rooftops, using the lack of traffic to hide his position until his victim fell to the ground with blood staining their neck. He would then flee among the same heights he used to infiltrate his victim's location to escape the pursing guards._

_The guards and crusaders called them sneaky bastards, scared-shitless cowards, and even white devils who used the shadows to unfairly surprise their enemies. The assassins valued the important skills of secrecy, climbing building to utilize rooftops, and the art of fleeing to insure safe delivery of the blood red feather. In Sabrina's mind, they were not enemies, but rather they shared things in common. They were all good men who sought to protect the innocent._

_It would later prove to be her undoing._

_**And forgive us our trespasses,**_

_**as we forgive them that trespass against us.**_

_Masayf, 1171_

_ Sabrina spread her hands over her growing stomach as she studied herself in the mirror. All of her clothing had to be let out to allow room for her extra weight, but she hardly noticed her aching fingers from all the stitching when she looked at the precious bump that expanded each day. She pictured a little blonde hair boy with charming green eyes like her own, before discarding the image, replacing it with a dark haired son with his father's changing eyes. Liking both images, she smiled at herself and was content at the thought of having either son to present her husband._

_ The door creaked as it opened, and she turned, closing her robe, to see her husband enter. His face as streaked with grime and sweat, and his shoulders hung low as he moved to undress for the night._

_ "How was it?" she asked him, moving to help him remove the blades on his back._

_ "Successful," he simply said, before turning his back to his wife._

_ She studied his back for a moment, before moving in front of him once more. "I have joyous news for you," she excitedly announced. He flicked his eyes up at her, away from untying his sash, and waited. Nervous, she opened her robe to reveal her stomach. "I am pregnant."_

_ A slow smile spread across his face, and he closed the distance between them. He scooped her up in his arms, and she laughed as he spun her around in the air._

_ "Careful now! You'll make the baby dizzy!" she teased him, pushing back her blonde locks as she could not help but share the same infectious grin he displayed. She watched him fall to his knees, pressing his cheek against her belly. His hands rubbed her sides, and he looked up at her, saying how the baby was laughing also._

_ Confident that a baby would return the tender husband she had fell in love with, Sabrina caressed his dark hair, and enjoyed the return of laughter to her life once more._

_**And lead us not into temptation;**_

_**but deliver us from evil.**_

_Maysayf, 1176_

_ "Aliya, come back here!" she called out. Sabrina watched her daughter's dark curls stream behind her as she ran across the novice's training yard, which thankfully was empty at the moment. Her daughter was constantly looking for her father, curious at where her "Papa" went while she played with her "Mama" and the other few children that resided in the Syrian Assassin's home. "Young lady you will stop!"_

_ The rambunctious child turned around with mischief sparkling in her green eyes. "Yes, Mama," she sweetly responded._

_ Sabrina trained a suspicious eye on her daughter, and kept it there as she walked to where her daughter impatiently waited. "And where do you think you are going?"_

_ "Papa told me that I could come visit him today," Aliya told her, pointing to where he stood near the gates. He was working with a few novices, instructing them on the importance of not only protecting their home, but also the villagers below. She had heard the speech many times as she had come up from the marketplace. His white robes blended well among the others, but she easily picked him out from the crowd. She took Aliya's hand, and together they walked to wait until he had dismissed the young men._

_ Once he was done and the men scattering among the village and back to the castle for lunch, he walked over to Aliya, gathering her into his arms. She laughed and squirmed at his tickling hands. "Papa," she chastised with a smile when he finally stopped and set her down. He set his eyes on his beautiful wife, and he gave her a polite nod._

_ She returned it, and gestured to their daughter. "She was eager to come visit you. I hope that we are not interrupting you."_

_ "I asked her to come find me," he explained, affirming Aliya's story. "We have been working on something together."_

_ Arching her brow, she wondered what it could be, and wondered if it was anything to do with her birthday that was approaching fast. She smiled. "Well, then I will leave to allow you to work."_

_ She walked away, looking over her shoulder to see her husband pointing his finger at Aliya. It looked as if he was harshly lecturing her about something, but Sabrina did not interfere. Instead, she continued to her rooms; where she lay down to take a nap._

_ When she awoke to the sound of loud footsteps in the hallway, Sabrina judged that she had slept for a fair amount of time sleeping. Guessing it was nearing the evening meal, she washed her face, before heading down below to find her family._

_ The servants pointed her in direction of the training yard, and she walked there to see Aliya sitting on a stool as her husband trained with a few other Master Assassins. Deciding to sneak up on Aliya, she quietly tiptoed behind her. However, before she could grasp Aliya's shoulders, the little girl spun around and scared her instead. Sabrina jumped, and gasped for air as the shock had her hand clutching the fabric of her neckline._

_ "How did you know I was—" she started to ask, but her words fell mute when she noticed her daughter's eyes were a metallic golden color instead of the cool, wet moss green they had shared. Yet, before her eyes, they were melting back to their regular color. "Aliya, what . . . what happened to your eyes?" she shrieked, panic coiling tightly in her chest._

_ Her husband strode forward, and removed her hands from their daughter. "Sabrina, stop making a scene here. Go help prepare the dining room for the evening meal. I will bring Aliya in after we are done."_

_ Sabrina stood to her full height and narrowed her eyes at him. "What have you done?" she loudly whispered. "What have you done to her?" she cried._

_ Grabbing her arm, he pulled her away from the others, including Aliya who watched them. "You will shut up now!" he seethed, the words coming from behind his clenched teeth. "Go to our bedroom, and I will deal with you after the meal."_

_ He began to walk away, but she reached out to stop him. "What are you doing? Just tell me what you are doing to her!" she pleaded._

_ "I'm preparing her, Sabrina," he said, before walking away. He scooped Aliya up, and together they headed towards the castle._

_ Preparing her. Sabrina closed her eyes, remembering the golden color of his own eyes the night they met. On him, it had been strange, but alluring at the same time, but on her own daughter, it was terrifying._

_**For thine is the kingdom,**_

_**the power, and the glory,**_

_Acre, 1176_

_ The slave woman, Mehar, had cleaned the cut on Aliya's head, clucking her tongue at the sight of the scraped skin around it. Sabrina wrung her hands in worry and guilt. If she had not scared herself into thinking that white, robed scholars were indeed her husband in disguise, which had sent her running through the crowded streets of Acre, the incident might have been avoided. Carelessly, she had tripped over the hem of her dress, sending her and Aliya crashing into the ground. She had escaped the accident unscathed, but Aliya had hit the ground hard, her forehead scraping the rough earth._

_ Mehar had seen the incident as she was walking home the marketplace, and rushed over to help Sabrina and Aliya up from the dusty ground. "Are you all right?" she asked._

_ Suspicious from constantly having to be on guard, Sabrina tucked Aliya close to her chest to protect her. Saying nothing, she studied the woman trying to use her instincts on whether she could trust the woman to help her injured daughter. Aliya's cries rose in consequence of the cuts and scrapes that were slightly bleeding on her forehead, Sabrina knew then that the woman was her only hope to escape the growing attention of the guards—and perhaps those who knew her husband._

_ "I think she will have a large bump soon," Mehar said as she replaced the tops to her medicines. "You are lucky that she was not more seriously injured." The slave woman gathered the supplies and left the small bedroom she shared with her husband, intent on returning the medicines where they belonged._

_ Sabrina used the time alone to hover over her daughter. She cooed softly and gently pressed her lips to the sensitive skin around the wound. Apologizing over and over again for her foolish mistake, Sabrina felt worse each minute she had to look at the inflamed skin on her daughter's otherwise perfect skin._

_ What was she doing, trying to escape her husband? Today was proof enough that she did not have the skills—and obviously balance—to outrun him. She let her head fall into her hands, trying not to cry for the tragic situation she found herself facing, but with no luck, quiet tears spilled onto her cheeks. It was only a matter of time before he finally caught her either due to his range of skills or her mistakes._

_ She guessed he would take her back to Masayf, as well as Aliya, and continue life as it had been before. Cloistered. Prisoners. Pawns. Returning her eyes to the ones that nearly mirrored them perfectly, she sighed, and begin sobbing at the decision she now faced._

_ To run forever, hoping to find word of where her parents had gone, or to wait for him to catch her. Either choice was unappealing, and she discarded both. No, she thought as she watched her daughter's eyes close, I do have another choice._

_ Mehar was confused and flustered as Sabrina ran from the large home, and called for the crazy European woman to come back, but she kept on her way. She would walk the streets of Acre until he found her, and then she would face him._

_ It was nearly night before he had landed swiftly behind her from amid the rooftops, and she had spun around with a dagger in her hand. He laughed in her face and taunted her to try and face him. Sabrina knew it was an impossible task, but she held her ground._

_ "I let you find me tonight," she told him, ignoring his scoff. "I wanted you to find me, so that I could deliver this message to you."_

_ "What message could that be, Sabrina?" he asked, his voice practically dripping with sweetness she knew he did not possess. His eyes dropped to her chest, and then scanned the area around them. "Where is Aliya?"_

_ She smiled then before feeling the hardness of a wall smash into her back as he pressed her up against one of the buildings. "I killed her."_

_ His golden eyes claimed hers in a battle of truths, as he studied her, looking for a sign that she was lying to him. "You are lying," he finally spat, before dropping her. Her knees buckled, but she kept the placid look on her face as she threw the brown locks in front of him. "I would rather her be dead with God, than in your possession to become an assassin!"_

_ Anger radiated off every pore of his body, and his breath was coming out in heavy, loud gusts. He bent down to pick up the lock of hair and ran his fingertips over the softness of the hair he knew to be his daughters. He spotted the blood that matted the ends. "You are a fool! You—You bitch!"_

_ She stood, laughing at him, continuing her act as he crushed his fist around the lock of hair in anger. He turned to then, and she poised her dagger at him. However, she had been right when she foretold that it would be his skills against her mistakes. He easily slapped the weapon from her hands, plunging his hidden dagger into her stomach. She had grimaced at the pain of having the blade enter her body, and she tried to cry out, but she couldn't. Her mouth gaped open in shock, but no sound left her throat. He released her, and let her collapse to the ground._

_ "Typically, I kill my victims in the neck. It is quick and almost painless," he said, "however, the stomach is a long, painful death, Sabrina. I hope it will give you a chance to think about what you have done." Then just as quickly as he had appeared, he was gone again, leaving her to die in the shadows of Acre. Mustering up all the strength, she had left, she cried out, "Assassin!_

_**forever and ever.**_

_**Amen**_

_Acre, 1176_

Al Mualim heard the bells tolling in the distance, and the screams and yells among the guards and townspeople as they searched for the assassin. He balanced himself among the edge of a roof, not far from the Bureau, to watch the ignorant guards search among the streets and shadows for the white robed figure they had come to hate so well.

He turned over his shoulder to look back at the area he had left his dying wife. She had been so beautiful almost to the point of angelic divinity, but her downfall had been her mind. Sabrina had stolen from him the most important thing he had ever had, destroying any chance he had now to regain the artifact many of the Templar men had killed within the last year spoke of.

Aliya had been his key to gaining the power her so richly deserved and needed. Now, because of a stupid woman it had all slipped through his fingers. Still he wondered if he was a fool to believe her, and that lock of hair. He slipped it out of his pocket to inspect again. The color, the feel, the slight curl . . . it was Aliya's he knew.

Stepping back, he navigated the rest of the roofs to slip into the Bureau silently, hoping to avoid to the rafik that guarded each of the assassin's safe places in the cities.

"What have you done?" the rafik demanded as the bells and yells spilt in through the entryway. "Who have you killed?"

"My wife," Al Mualim spat, daring the man to argue with him once more. "She had run away from me, and killed my daughter. Tell me I did not have the right!"

The man said nothing, instead casting his finger towards the exit. "Leave here and return to Masayf to tell the Grand Master of what you have done. He will decide what punishment you deserve for potentially putting your brothers in danger."

Al Mualim narrowed his eyes at the man. He imagined what it would feel like to wrap his hands around the rafik's neck and squeeze the life from his lungs, but he suppressed the urge. Backing away, Al Mualim bowed as if he was greeting a superior. "Safety and Peace, Brother," he said slyly.

"You are no brother of mine," the rafik said ominously and turned his back after the assassin escaped through the exit.


	2. Chapter 1

**This story was originally called "TRUTH," but after further story development it has been changed to its present title "IMPULSION".**

**The description has also been changed as a result.**

**The Author's Note is included on the end of the chapter this time.**

**WARNING: For those who have not played or finished Assassin's Creed, beware that this is a story set after the game so there will be spoilers. I mention it again in my author's note, but I just wanted to give you a head's up beforehand.**

**Enjoy!**

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**_Chapter_** _**One

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_Jerusalem, 1192_

The warm breeze lilted through the gates of Jerusalem, singing past the city guards that suppressed yawns due to the early hour, through a set of chimes, clanging the hallow wood together. The breeze swept past a group of women as they headed out of their homes, blowing their headscarves like pennants. It blew the smoke from the fireplaces warming the morning meals, and caressed the weathered cheek of the old vendor as he prepared his booth for the business day.

It cooled Aliya's warm skin as she lifted her face to receive its touch, and then finally swept past her, softly passing through her clothing.

She lifted her hand to wipe away the small beads of sweat off her face, as she continued from her employer's home. Draped over her right arm was a large basket, intended to hold the fresh fruit, vegetables, and grains she would purchase for tonight's feast. Her mother, Mehar, was running around the kitchens trying to throw together the banquet her employer had requested just this morning. As Mehar was pushing Aliya out the door, she was complaining of the audacity of the man to tell her now, the morning of the event. Shaking her head, she laughed quietly to herself at the image of Mehar running about the chicken coop trying to catch a fat hen upon hearing the news.

It was an honor, Mehar had proclaimed, to be the first in the city to cook for the new king of Jerusalem, Conrad of Montferrat. She went on and on, her hands moving quickly as she lectured how great they all should feel to have the chance to set their eyes on the man everyone was talking about. Aliya had rolled her eyes, kneading the bread dough, as she listened to Mehar ramble and ramble . . . and ramble. Truthfully, she had been near smacking the rolling pin over her mother's head before Mehar had suggested Aliya head to the marketplace to pick up a 'few' ingredients.

A _few_ ingredients had ended up being a list as long as her arm and a basket big enough to carry a small child. However, whatever Mehar needed, she would get. Besides, the longer the list, the longer it would take to gather them, therefore giving her more time away from Mehar's sermon about the greatness of Conrad of Montferrat.

If Aliya said anything to Mehar about Conrad it would be that the man was a power hungry snake, willing to sell his own children if it meant to gain more land. It wasn't just him. All of the European Crusaders that were claiming the Holy Land for their own 'states,' were constantly talking of their _holy_ _war_ for their god, while they plundered and laid siege on cities where the innocent were slaughtered. It wasn't about their religion anymore—if it ever had been—it was about, and always would be, about land, power, and position. Conrad of Montferrat was just another man moving in to take what others had taken. Thieving from the thieves.

Yet, she felt like a hypocrite for damning the Crusaders when her birth mother had come to the land because of it.

Clearing her head of political thoughts, as she had no control over them as a slave nor as a woman, she focused on the task at hand: gathering the finest produce and grains for Mehar so that she could cook her magnificent feast to remind their employer, the Bishop of Beauvais why he had paid a hefty sum for Mehar and her family. He had always claimed it was Mehar's talent with pastries which constantly satisfied his sweet tooth, but Aliya knew the man was partial to anything that Mehar prepared for him.

The marketplace was a dizzying array of colors, sights, and sounds as the townspeople were crowding around various booths, their voices rising as prices were haggled. Aliya moved in and out of the crowds, choosing her purchases carefully before handing over the coins to the overzealous merchants. Walking further down the roads, her basket was getting heavier and heavier, while her purse was growing lighter.

"You look like you are carrying a child in there by the way you are struggling," a kind voice came from behind her.

Aliya looked over her shoulder, blowing her hair out of her face, to see her friend Rasha. Setting her basket down beside her, Aliya waited for the young woman to push her way through the sea of people.

Rasha peered her dark eyes into the large basket, laughing at the small mountain of food she carried. "Mehar must be nervous to cook for the new king of Jerusalem," she noted, taking up the basket herself.

"Rasha!" Aliya protested. "Let me take that. It's is too heavy for you to carry."

Her friend smacked her hands away. "You were practically crawling when I saw you. I will carry the basket for a few minutes to give your back a rest."

Consenting, Aliya fell in step besides Rasha as they walked by a few more booths.

"So, how are you? I have not seen you in the last week, and usually you are knocking on my door every other day," Rasha complained, her exertion showing through the grimace on her face as she struggled to walk.

"I am fine. I haven't been sleeping well lately," Aliya replied, leaning down to help support the basket.

Rasha looked down at both of their hands holding onto the handle and smiled. "See? This is why my brother needs to marry a woman like you! You are too smart to be a single woman for this long."

Aliya laughed. "Or maybe, I am too smart to become a married woman," she joked.

"Wasim has been telling me all week that your breath catches each time he walks past you," Rasha told her, placing her hand on her heart and pretending to be faint, "and that he suspects you are just making him wait so that he will buy you a gift to sweeten your heart. I told him that there is a jade hair comb that would make you fall at his feet!"

Rolling her eyes, Aliya shot her friend a dubious look. "Rasha, you should not encourage his antics. He had been mistaking my friendliness with desire, and I do not need you to confuse him more."

Rasha opened her mouth to retort, but suddenly a flash of white rushed past them. Rasha was pushed to the ground, taking the basket with her. Aliya fell back, staring as city guards trailed after the white apparition. As soon as the area was cleared, she leaped up to help Rasha to her feet and gather the spilled purchases.

"Are you—" Aliya tried to ask, only to be interrupted by the guards calls.

"Assassin! Catch him!"

The cry turned her head, and she watched as the white figure came running towards her once again with even more guards chasing it. She moved quickly trying to grab Rasha out of the way, but the stranger crashed into her sending them both onto the dusty earth. She grunted as heavy figure landed on her.

Catching her breath, Aliya looked up to see gold brown eyes staring down into hers. His white hood fell heavily around his face, casting a dark shadow to block the sun, allowing her to see him clearly. His face was simply planes and straight edges, nothing rounded or feminine in those harsh lines. His hair was dark, but not black, and although his skin was darker than hers was, it was lighter compared to Rasha's.

"You better not have bruised my oranges," Aliya finally said the first thing that came to mind, narrowing her eyes.

His lips quirked into a crooked smile, bringing her attention to a scar that crossed the right side of his mouth.

"Assassin!" the yells came again.

The spell broke, Aliya quickly felt his weight lift, and the sun's rays blinded her without the protective cover of the assassin's hood. Leaning up on her elbows, Aliya turned to watch his escape. He ran to one of the buildings, and leaped up to grasp one of the broken window ledges. The quickness of his movements had caused his hood to fall on his back, showing his short dark hair. She watched as he crawled up and up until he reached the top of the building. As if he had all the time in the world, he stood on the edge, and studied the crowd for a moment—holding her gaze—before replacing his hood, hiding his features once again. He looked to his right, and so did she, seeing the guards nearing each minute. Aliya returned her gaze to where he stood again, only to see the ends of his robes as he ran.

"Aliya!" Rasha said, picking her friend up from the ground. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. I'm fine." Aliya told her, brushing the dust off her _hijab_. She bent over to pick up an onion that had fallen a few inches away from her. "I got up to try and help you out of the way, and then the next thing I knew, I am staring up at—at . . ."

"The assassin?" Rasha finished.

Aliya nodded, turning her attention to the ground.

Rasha helped her gather the pouches and ingredients that had spilled out of the basket. She held out a damaged apple in front of Aliya's face, watching with amusement as Aliya scrutinized the cuts and bruises.

"Gah." Aliya threw the apple into her basket, frustrated at having to walk through the crowds with the heavy basket again. "I sincerely hoped he hurt himself when he crashed into me. Maybe my kneecap hit him somewhere . . . sensitive?" she added, hopefully, her eyebrow arched.

"All for the _apple_?" Rasha snorted. "Besides, the city guards will catch him soon enough, and while he is in prison, he can think of the damage he has done . . . to your _apple_."

Aliya grinned at her friend's obvious pleasure at teasing her, as her eyes caught sight of the guards struggling to climb the same building the assassin had scaled so easily. A few that had managed to make their way on up, were looking around as if they didn't know which direction to head in.

"They're not going to catch him," Aliya said quietly, more to herself than to Rasha.

Rasha placed the last missing item in the basket. "What did you say?"

Aliya blinked, her eyes focusing on her friend's face. "Nothing." Aliya shook her head as if she was ridding herself of a daydream. "I said nothing."

"Uh huh," Rasha retorted, unbelieving. "If you ask me, I think you are a little too worked up over this apple incident. Come, we will head over to that booth over there and quickly grab a replacement. Midmorning is coming, and I know Mehar will send out your older brothers if you do not return soon."

* * *

Altair jumped nimbly across the heights of the Jerusalem skyline as he placed more and more distance between himself and the city guards. His white robes billowed behind him as he leaped from one roof, across the open space above the streets, landing safely on his feet onto another before taking off once more. The Bureau was not far, and honestly, he looked forward to eating a meal out of the saddle and sleeping on the comfort of plush pillows rather than the hard, cold earth.

It wasn't home, but it would do until he could return to Masayf.

He jumped through the roof entrance, landing easily into the main chamber where the sound of water trickling came from the fountain. The room was empty save for the pillows that were piled about the room.

Walking into the bureau leader's chamber, he noticed Malik was hunched over the counter, his quill moving across a large piece of parchment that displayed the world map the Piece of Eden had produced after the defeat of Al Mualim.

"Malik," Altair greeted, moving forward to see the progress his friend had made.

The dai looked up from his work, to take in the sight of his Grand Master, but also friend. He smiled. "I started working on this map after you left, trying to draw it to a grander scale. Using our older maps, I have filled in much of this area here." His hand gestured toward the large landmasses that were clustered together on the right side. "But these areas here," he now looked to the left that displayed a large amount of land still yet to be discovered, "are completely unknown. It is a mystery, Altair."

Altair studied the map quietly, his hand casually rubbing across his mouth as he compared the parchment to the own image he held within his mind. It was a perfect translation of what the Piece of Eden had displayed that day, at least in his opinion, and trailed his hand across the dry ink to Egypt. "The journey to Giza was unsuccessful," Altair said. "If a Piece of Eden once resided there, it is gone now."

Malik stared at the marking he had made to represent the location, and with a heavy heart, placed a heavy 'x' over it. "So, we know not if what the Apple has shown us is true or not. It could have been just another one of Al Mualim's tricks. Perhaps, knowing that he had lost, he conjured one last illusion and this was it."

"How could my eyes accept the map as truth, while all his other illusions were naught but falsities in my mind?" Altair shook his head. "I believe the Apple had shown us where the Pieces of Eden were located at one time, but through discovery and manipulation, it is possible they have fallen into other hands."

"Then, what do we do next?" Malik asked, looking back at the map to see where the next closest marking was located. "Here is one, far east of us. If you left tomorrow from Jerusalem you might be able to make it there—"

Altair held up his hand to stop the conversation. "I cannot take off for months again. I am Grand Master now, Malik, and while I trust you and my brothers to take care of things in my absence . . . I have a responsibility here."

"You have a responsibility to _this_," Malik pressed, pointing to the great map that lay in-between them. "If the Templars find the Pieces of Eden before us, Altair . . . I fear for the peace we work so hard to deliver to this land, for what Al Mualim and the Templars wished to accomplish was not _peace_ but an ignorant existence for all of humankind!"

Altair pushed away from the counter, pacing the length of the room in thought. His movements were brisk, paced, and methodical. Arms easily swinging at his side and his eyes distracted as he walked. Finally, he looked back at Malik, studying him from beneath the shadows of his hood.

"Is that not what peace is, my brother? An ignorant existence of the evils that walk past you every day? A false sense of security as you raise your children, believing that nothing bad will ever happen?" Altair returned to his place across from Malik, looking down at the map. "We kill to bring the people security and prosperity, and to ensure that those who hold power, do not do so with corruption in their hearts. We _know_ of the evil and the vendettas that exist in the world, so that they do not have to. We kill so that the innocent do not suffer. They already live in an ignorant existence."

Malik opened his mouth to reply, but found Altair was not finished.

"Yet, I understand the peace you speak of, Malik. The peace we can bring in to the people so that they no longer fear the authority around them." Altair sighed, passing an irritated hand over his eyes. "I have not forgotten _our_ responsibility to the Pieces of Eden, but I cannot forget my place in this world. I have left the brotherhood long enough without a master."

"I will follow you whatever you decide, but we must not forget what has been shown to us," Malik said, as he rolled up the map. "We must not wait long before exploring the next location."

The dai turned to return the parchment to its hiding place among the scrolls and papers that were scattered about the area, before turning his attention to Altair once again. The Grand Master assassin's robes were covered with dust from the roads and terrain that he had traveled. He was leaning heavily against the counters as a sign of his exhaustion, his head resting in the palm of his hand, while his eyes were closed. The man did not even look up when Malik returned.

Malik poked Altair's shoulder, grabbing the man's attention. "I have a lot of news and information to give you, but it can wait until you have cleaned up and slept," he said.

Altair nodded, turning to walk towards the back quarters. "And eaten. I have not eaten since early yesterday morning," he said, hinting in hopes of Malik preparing his breakfast.

Catching on, Malik rolled his eyes. "I might have something in the kitchen worthy of your stomach."

Grinning at his success, Altair stripped off his dusty robes, readily pushing away the monsters that awaited his attention after he was feeling human once again.

* * *

Altair hated bells. The sound of their chimes ringing throughout the city as he ran, cutting through the city guards that clambered over each other to be the one to dispatch the dreaded assassin. They mocked him as he soared across the rooftops, and dodged the arrows that sometimes pierced armor or flesh. _Ding dong. Ding dong._

A low growl sounded in the back of his throat as he sat up among the pillows to see Malik quickly coming from the leader's chambers. The sound of the bells weren't disappearing as sleep was moving further and further away from his grasp, and he soon realized that the Jerusalem bells were truly being rung.

_Ding Dong. Ding Dong._

"Altair," Malik came to stand before him, "glad to see that you are awake. I was afraid I was going to have to dump some cold water onto your face the way you were snoring."

"Well, if you were planning on asking me for a favor, now the answer is no," Altair replied at Malik's comment on his sleeping habits, leaning back to reclaim his slumber.

_Ding Dong. Ding Dong._

"Conrad of Montferrat rides into the city to dine with the Bishop of Beauvais," Malik began, but the information did nothing to Altair's relaxed form. The dai's brow furrowed. "And although, he has had claim to the title of king of Jerusalem by his marriage to Isabella, the Crusader's have finally elected him."

With his eyes still closed, Altair replied, "So? The man has done nothing to warrant my interest as of yet. The only thing that comes to mind is that his father called him an 'arse'."

Malik simmered with impatience, kicking Altair in the leg. "The Bishop of Beauvais, Philip of Dreaux, has been a supporter of Conrad, annulling Isabella's marriage to Humphrey. The Bishop has been housing many _interesting_ guests over the past year, but this is the first time that they will all be gathering at his home."

"What do you mean by _interesting_?" Altair glared up at his friend, rubbing the injured leg.

He listed off a few names of Crusader leaders and wealthy Arabian merchants, "Including Gilbert Horal."

"Gilbert was Robert de Sablé's second-in-command," Altair mused. "You believe their electing their leader tonight, then?"

Malik nodded. "I am still unsure of what Conrad and the Bishop's role is in relation to the Templar's, or if the celebration for the new king of Jerusalem is just a cover for the Templars."

Altair sighed, and glanced longingly at the pillows that lay about him before standing up. "Fine, I will go, and . . . investigate the party and such. Hopefully, I will back before nightfall."

He strapped on his weapons, securing the buckles, and checking his throwing knives. Ready, he moved towards the fountain to leave.

"Altair," Malik stopped him.

He turned to see Malik holding a white feather between his forefinger and thumb. "It seems foolish for me to give this to you, but . . .,"he trailed off, reaching his hand out so that Altair could grab it.

Altair spun it in his fingers, watching it blur in the motion before tucking it into his sash.

"Safety and peace," Malik wished, stepping back as the other assassin lifted himself to the exit. "May you continue to bring us both."

* * *

**A/N: Hello readers! I just wanted to start off by saying thank you to all that have reviewed or added this story or me to their alerts. I truly appreciate it! Sorry about the title change, but I had not been thrilled with it and finally found something I liked.  
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**So onto some business: I would have had this chapter posted sooner, but this chapter is really important as it is the first time I am introducing my OC as well as writing about Altair and Malik which was of some concern since it is my goal to try and stick as close as to their true personalities. However, since I am writing about a time beyond the game (SPOILERS) I can only try and express how I feel the characters would act as consequence. I welcome arguments or comments about this.**

**Research: I have been reading a lot trying to figure out what Altair and Malik would have been dealing with after the defeat of Al Mualim in the first Assassin's Creed, trying to get a sense of what the politics were so that I could create a believable plot line. The result has been mentioning real people from history, but I have had to change some facts in order to keep the story flowing. I will mention this in more detail in the next chapter, because I do not want to give away anything as of yet. I just wanted to put that out there if anyone has noticed them so far.  
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**Reviews, comments, or criticisms are welcomed.**

**PS: Does anyone know how to make Altair's name completely correct (with the double dots over the i)? I have it figured out in Microsoft Word, but it did not convert correctly here. Any help is appreciated.**

**And as always . . .  
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**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Assassin's Creed or any of the characters belonging to the series.**

_Crystal_**  
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	3. Chapter 2

**_Chapter Two_**

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* * *

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_Jerusalem, 1192_

The stars and moon burned brightly against the dark sky, illuminating the garden with its natural light. Wax candles were placed strategically among the area to chase the night shadows away from the large dinner party that sat in the middle. The table was richly covered with large platters filled with all sorts of foods. The traditional Arabic dishes painted beautiful colors with startling greens, yellows, and reds from the fruit and vegetables that were combined. Fresh rice and bread were producing wisps of steam among the table as a caressing breeze blew through the garden. Large booming laughs echoed off the walls that surrounded the Bishop's home, and echoed back to the diners' ears. Goblets were clanked together by the Crusaders, as aromatic wine was being constantly poured by the Bishop's servants. Meanwhile, the Muslim men drank sweet coffee with their meals, their religion prohibiting the ingestion of alcohol. The sound of multiple conversations swirled together creating a jumbled mess of words, incoherent to anyone passing by.

Even Aliya, who stood behind the Bishop's chair, waiting to be called, should the diners need anything, could not decipher the rambles. Demurely, she kept her head down, and observed the stones that rested below her feet.

Boredom brought forth the thoughts of Rasha's insistence that Aliya consider Wasim's wish to someday marry her. She pictured herself cooking, cleaning, and fussing over her husband when he returned home. The image was depressing, and so she attempted to clear her mind. It was not that she did not wish for love or even marriage, but she did not want the same things Wasim wanted. Wasim would expect her to stay home and take care of their children, while staying pregnant with yet another child. The image of kids did not sound horrible either, but she wanted more from her life than that. She wanted to be able to explore, learn, and . . .

What use were foolish thoughts as these?

Aliya knew that in order for those things to occur she would have to consider growing a lengthy beard and develop body parts that would be impossible to acquire naturally.

Perhaps her only hope was to marry Wasim. At least Rasha would always be near.

The sounds and voices became muted as time had passed, and so it took the Bishop's increasing call to pull her away from her thoughts.

"Aliya," the Bishop called her. He was turned in his chair now, looking over his shoulder. The richly made cloth that was used to create his robes fell over the arm of the chair, and for a moment, her eyes were transfixed by the gold stitching that lit up from the candles. "Aliya."

She swiftly moved forward, carrying the jug of wine that she had been using to refresh the guests' thirst. "I am sorry, Bishop," she apologized.

He waved his hand in the air, as if to say that it was not a problem. The wine he had already drank was relaxing his features and making displeasure and anger harder to claim. "We would like more wine, and the new king of Jerusalem has requested some of Mehar's delicious pastries. He does not wish to wait until dessert." Her master then looked jovially at Conrad, even clapping a friendly hand on the man's shoulder. Aliya's eyes naturally followed the movement, finding the guest of honor.

Conrad's blue eyes stared at her face for a moment, before lazily trailing the length of her body. Aliya concentrated on carefully pouring the wine from the mouth of the jug, watching the red liquid fill the cups. She focused on keeping her hand from shaking, not from fear, but from embarrassment and anger. Although she knew her _shalwar_ and _kameez_ did not cling tightly to her body, she had to resist from covering herself with her hands. Instead, she hardened her kind eyes at the man as she poured his wine, before turning back to the Bishop.

"I will fetch them quickly," she told him.

Aliya could not help but imagine the new king's eyes burning a hole through her back, and she gripped the jug's handle tightly. She entered the busy kitchen as Mehar directed the rest of the servants as to what to take out and what to bring back in. Her mother's round face was covered with sweat. Mehar took a rag from her apron pocket to wipe her face before turning to Aliya.

"They have not finished, have they?" she asked, concern drawing on her face. "I still have a few more dishes and dessert to be served. I even prepared—"

"No, no. Conrad wishes for the pastries now rather than later," Aliya informed her, searching the tables for them.

Mehar grinned. "The Bishop must have boasted of them since he can never get enough," she said, finding a platter easily. "Watch the King eat them so you can describe his reaction to me later!"

Aliya looked at her mother strangely for a moment before turning to take the desserts to the table. The presence of those in power always seemed to have a strange affect on her mother, while producing almost none in the European servants that the Bishop had either brought with him or purchased off other wealthy Christians. Aliya, Mehar, and their family were the only servants with an Arabic background, and that fact was credited due to the time the Bishop had dined at Mehar's old master's home. Once he had tasted her cooking, he wished for Mehar to replace his old cook, and paid a heavy price to purchase the rest of the family so that Mehar would willingly come. Or she should say that his church paid their price. As a result, Aliya knew her mother wanted to impress the guests with her cooking skills and knowledge, and prove to the Bishop once more that she and her family had been worth the trouble . . . but to ask Aliya to watch Conrad eat her dessert and describe it to her later? It was almost bordering insanity!

Arriving back at the dinner party, she presented the platter to the Bishop and Conrad, watching as Conrad's large, callused, and hairy hands grabbed a select few, while the Bishop's smaller, smoother ones snatched the rest. Once the platter was empty, she moved back to her place behind the Bishop's chair.

Her conscience battled against sneaking a look at Conrad's reaction and ignoring the vermin until he had left. Aliya didn't wish to set eyes on the man any more than necessary, but Mehar was her mother. Sighing, she concentrated on slowly lifting her face to watch Conrad as he inhaled her mother's food. A flaky pastry lifted to his mouth, and he placed the entire thing in. After chewing for a few minutes, he smiled, and gave an enthusiastic nod towards the Bishop. She barely noticed the small smile that formed on her lips at her mother's success, but it quickly disappeared when Conrad's eyes found her once again.

His eyes deliberately held hers before he gave what looked to be a promiscuous leer. Aliya didn't hide her face or break the eye contact, but stared back as she watched his eyes travel down her body once again, resting on her chest. When the blue eyes were once again looking into hers, she narrowed her eyes in warning. She was not a slave that he could just look at for his pleasure. This was not Europe were she had heard tales of nobility and masters abusing their servants for pleasure. This was the Holy Land where women were held in reverence, even if she was a slave, and below him . . . he should not look at her that way.

Even though she should have returned to her submissive state and lower her face to the ground once more, Aliya could not help herself as she lifted her chin in defiance. Looking down her nose at him, she dared him to continue his study.

Conrad chuckled, lifting his goblet to her, before returning his attention to the Bishop and the guests around him. He pushed back his chair, and now held the same goblet in the air to toast. "Gentlemen, we have enjoyed a rich and bountiful dinner from our gracious host, the Bishop. He has time and time again provided meals and shelter to those who request it, whether they be soldiers or simple Christian pilgrims, and tonight, we have been deemed worthy enough to share his table. To the Bishop of Beauvais, a man who remains an inspiration to us all."

The guests around the table lifted their drinks high in the air, toasting the Bishop and his goodness. After the supporting cries and drinks had been done, the Bishop stood up—no glass in hand—and announced that dinner was coming to a close. "We have business that still requests our attention tonight, gentlemen, and by the grace of God we will succeed."

* * *

The church's lofty towers and detailed architecture added a certain magnificence to the building, and could inspire any visitors to stare up in awe at the sheer beauty of their Lord's home. The shadows casted by the towering heights and the nooks and crannies that resulted from architects wishing to create the most elaborate designs . . .

Well, they made for the best hiding places.

Altair watched the boisterous guests push back their chairs, taking only their goblets with them as they followed the Bishop inside. He grimaced as he moved slightly to stretch his cramped legs, and attempted to massage the painful tingling sensation that was driving up his calves. If the dinner party was moving inside, then so would he, and that involved moving quickly to find where they were meeting. Ignoring the stabs of pins and needles, he crept along the shadows, climbing down the church's building.

He landed softly on the stone, limping a little until his legs were limber once again, and followed the length of the wall that surrounded the garden. Carefully, avoiding the flickering lights of the candles, he maneuvered around the trees and bushes.

The servants were rapidly clearing the table of the dirty dishes, platters, and napkins. They moved much like one being, each servant having a function and purpose. A few grabbed the dishes, while others grabbed the bowls. One servant—the only Arab servant, he noticed—grabbed the napkins and moved about the perimeter, extinguishing candles.

Reaching a dead end on the ground, Altair leapt up to pull himself on top of the wall and from there climbed upwards. He needed to find an entrance near where the men were meeting. He peeked into a few windows finding empty guests rooms and even the Bishop's private office. His eyes caught sight of a few leafs of parchment that lay on the desk. Slipping into the empty room via the open window, he scanned the letters, finding only family correspondence. Altair checked the desk, but found the drawers locked. Had he more time, he would have picked the locks, but it was important to spy on the Bishop's meeting far more than delving into the Bishop's secret letters.

He pressed his ear to the door, listening for footsteps or creaks that told of someone walking near. Finding none, he cautiously opened the door to sneak along the halls. Altair walked quietly, pausing only when he heard the servants' voices to listen where their feet took them.

The hallway extended for a few more feet, and he was about to turn back around and head back outside to perhaps find another way in, when the sound of men's voices reached his ear. Turning his head, he listened carefully trying to gauge where their location was. He crept towards the voices and eventually the hallway opened into a library.

An empty library.

Curious, he relaxed his guard and walked straight into the room. Turning to his right, he observed merely bookshelves. Turning to his left—

Shit.

Altair ducked, hiding himself behind the wooden banister that enclosed one side of the library. Berating himself thoroughly in his head, he progressed towards it; eventually peering over it to see that below the odd library was the dining room where the men were crowded about a long wood table.

It reminded him of some sort of witchery gathering. The kind that was performed in the dim lighting of a few stubbed candles, wax melting trails along the sides of their holders and finally pooling onto the table. The kind of magic that was dark and forbidden would have boded well in the room among the men that sat there, shifting slightly in their chairs and taking casual drinks of their wine. Their eyes swished back and forth, alert and ready for whatever business was at hand. Altair knew they were not there to cheer and toast the new king of Jerusalem, but instead they were huddled in the dark room to discuss things that could not be whispered in the night air where anyone might hear them.

Like an assassin.

The thought curled his lips into a grin, and he settled himself comfortably behind the solid wood barrier that rested between him and discovery. It was a miracle they hadn't spotted him moving in the room above them, especially with their suspicious eyes roaming the room, but they probably were not worried of shadows above, but instead casted their bets on the men beside them to be a possible culprit.

Altair slowly peeked over the banister.

"Saladin's army is still fighting against Richard in Jaffa," the Bishop was saying, waving his hand as if in a casual conversation. "If the Crusaders cannot stop Saladin and his army from taking back the Crusader's states, then I fear for our future here."

"King Richard has been pushing us to save our resources to prepare for a long battle. He will not give in to the enemy so easily," Gilbert Horal interjected. "Our numbers are still strong, and as long as King Richard is alive, Saladin will not step foot in Jaffa. The only thing we are lacking is a Grand Master. Since Robert de Sable was murdered, I have been stepping in as a _temporary_ leader, but we need a _permanent_ leader to refocus the Order."

"You believe you are a true leader? A man who leaves his men fighting, while he eats and drinks like a king?" an Arabian merchant asked, his cunning, dark eyes appearing over the rim of his goblet as his finger trailed the rim.

Gilbert's anger was quick to rise as his hand reached for his sword, but the Bishop placed a calm hand on his. "Gilbert came at my insistence that he be here this night. I can personally attest to his bravery, skill, and honor," the Bishop addressed the table, but his eyes focusing especially on the merchant.

The merchant consented with the incline of his head, but the look did not disappear from his eyes as he gave a knowing smile towards his comrades.

The Bishop ignored the discourse, standing up to regain the room's complete attention. "Gentlemen, I brought you here all tonight not to only celebrate the new king of Jerusalem, but to also ask for your cooperation in the Church's important work here in the Holy Land." He cleared his throat for a dramatic effect, before continuing. "Although I stand here today on the holiest land, our place here is not secure. Richard and Saladin will not be contented until the other side has been slaughtered, so that they may proudly place their flags on the city of Jerusalem once more. It is a battle of the Cross and the Crescent, and I cannot help but think there will be no winner in the end."

Conrad rubbed his beard in thought, before speaking. "I am assuming you have a plan, Bishop? One that does not solely rely on the power of prayer, I hope?"

"I do," the Bishop said proudly. "I have recently acquired the knowledge of . . . _important_ artifacts that I believe will be able to help finally bring peace to this land. Holy artifacts called Pieces of Eden that have been once held by our Savior to bring salvation. With these artifacts, we can do the same to the people of the Holy Land."

"Where are the artifacts?"

"What exactly are they?"

"Pieces of Eden? Are they shrubs?"

"What are we to do with it?"

The Crusader's questions came abruptly and loudly, while the merchants simply grinned as if they had been in on the conspiracy since the beginning. Smacking his goblet against the wooden table, the Bishop called for order among the men's questions. "Gentlemen! I will do my best to answer questions, as you are all important to the Church's success in this endeavor."

Conrad narrowed his eyes at the Bishop. "Just what are you asking of us?"

"I am asking each of you to give of yourselves and your possessions to the Church during our search for these Pieces of Eden." The Bishop turned to look at the young Templar knight, Gilbert, that sat on the right of him. "Gilbert, I called you here today to ask that you lead your knights to the known locations at all haste."

"We fight with King Richard," replied Gilbert, his brow furrowed. "We cannot possibly leave to go on a scavenger hunt!"

The Bishop gave him a sharp smile. "You naught but a _temporary_ Grand Master, are you not? I am sure there are other men that would be willing to do the Church's work."

Gilbert said nothing.

"If you cannot support the Church in their time of need . . .," the Bishop said, shrugged his shoulders.

"This is blackmail and treachery!" Gilbert exclaimed, shooting to his feet and looking around the room for an ally of which he could rely on. Finding none, he turned back to the Bishop. "You would have us abandon our king to look for these Pieces of Eden?"

"To do the Lord's work, Gilbert," the Bishop insisted. "That is what the Templar Order was founded for. These Pieces of the Eden are important and a vital piece of our survival here. Your mentor, Robert de Sable understood this, and do not play ignorant with me when I ask you if you are willing to aid the Church in their acquisition of these artifacts. You were his second in command, surely you heard or saw something during the past few years."

"He spoke of it once," Gilbert finally gave in, "but I never have seen it. Bishop, why do you want these Pieces of Eden so badly?"

Ignoring the question, the Bishop leveled his gaze to Gilbert's, and snapped his fingers. "I can change your future that fast, my son. With a letter to the Pope of a 'vision' or recommendation of some sorts, I can decide your place in history. So I ask of you once more, will you aide your church during its time of need?"

Altair watched the man wrestle with himself, battling back and forth between his loyalty to his king and to the Church. He wanted to believe that perhaps the man would decline and leave the room, but Gilbert was not a fool. The temptation of being Grand Master of the Templars was a great honor to the Crusaders, and if he did as asked, his name would be remembered in history as a leader. The name of Gilbert Horal would be written as one who led men into battle, rather than follow behind another. Positions came with power, and power was something all men seemed to strive after.

"I—I will help the Church," Gilbert said, his voice broke at one point, but remained strong. "I will lead my men to the locations and search for these holy artifacts."

Shaking his head, Altair closed his eyes, pondering the events that were being laid out by the Bishop to these men.

The Bishop grinned. "Good boy, my son. I will send word to the Pope immediately of my wonderful vision, the Lord sent me, of you being granted the title of Grand Master."

Gilbert's head had fallen, his eyes staring deeply into the wine in his cup. He mumbled, "Thank you," before falling silent once more.

"You will want us to give him the letters before he leaves?" a merchant asked the Bishop.

"No, no," the Bishop replied. "I will take them, and give him his instructions."

"What letters is the man talking about?" Conrad spoke up.

The Arabian merchant, who had insulted Gilbert before, leaned forward. "Before Robert de Sable was murdered, he had contacted many of us with the proposition of expositions in numerous locations around the world." His English was heavily accented, but it flowed smoothly and the Crusaders followed his every word. He continued, "It was later that another man contacted me, requesting the same thing. He wanted us to visit locations, and seek out these things called Pieces of Eden. We kept the letters, even after they stopped coming."

"The letters contain key locations that these men believed had other Pieces," the Bishop explained, sitting down in his chair.

"Bishop, you have only mentioned these Pieces of Eden in passing, but you have yet to explain what they are," an older European man spoke from the end of the table. He wore the outfit of a Crusader, but it looked new and bright, as if he had never marched along the lines of battle. "What exactly will the Templars be looking for?"

The Bishop leaned back against his chair, creating a steeple with his fingers in front of his mouth. "It is unclear what these Pieces of Eden truly are, but my source details them to be powerful tools of our Savior. They have been held in the hands of Jesus during his time on Earth. Now that they are scattered about the world, we must collect them and return them to the Church."

"And you wish us to give our resources to the Church to go on some wild goose hunt?" the older European man questioned. "We have a bloody war happening, and you want us to give away coin and food so that you can get some shrubs?"

"They're not shrubs!" the Bishop exclaimed. "They are powerful tools of our Lord!"

"So they're hammers?"

"Perhaps, saws or some sort?"

The Bishop pinched the bridge of his nose to calm his nerves. "Gentlemen, all I ask of you is to help the Church in any way you possibly can. Whether it be gold or allowing the knights to camp on your lands. Those that do, will receive multiple blessings in this life and beyond for it is the Lord's work we are doing here."

"That is all?" Conrad questioned, his brow arched suspiciously over his keen blue eye. "You ask nothing else?"

The Bishop looked a bit sheepish when he turned to look at the king of Jerusalem. "I would especially like to request the use of your home in Tyre to provide shelter and supplies for the knights before they begin their journey. It is the furthest Crusader state from Richard and Saladin, which is desirable. I would also like to bring myself and a guest there to lead the hunt,"

"Why?" Conrad asked. "Why are you abandoning your church to come to Tyre?"

"The Pope has granted me special leave in the midst of the fighting," the Bishop explained, shrugging his shoulders. "Will you grant me shelter?"

Conrad contemplated the decision for a moment, taking a long drink from his wine. Finally, he nodded. "Fine, but I wish due payment for my losses."

"But—"

"Hush your tongue, Bishop. I do not wish for the Church's coin. What I wish for is a particular servant girl of yours in lieu for my . . . my _extra_ services to the Church," Conrad negotiated. "

"Which one are you speaking of?" the Bishop asked, curious as to which of his employees had caught the king's eye.

"The servant that stood behind you," Conrad said. "You called her Aliya."

* * *

**(A/N) I know this chapter was a bit dry filled with mostly conversations and observations, BUT I promise the next chapter will be much more action filled. **

**However, I did enjoy writing this chapter because we are getting to know Aliya more, and Altair is sneaking about discovering that perhaps things aren't as easy as he thought they would be when it comes to finding the Pieces of Eden. I also like the fact that he makes mistakes like just walking into a room and his legs fall asleep when he has been observing his potential targets for a long while. Makes him a bit more human to me.  
**

**Okay, so onto the main portion of this note . . . the research. Some may not care and scroll on, but others may be interested in the history of the Crusades. It is for those people that I spent 3 hours watching a History Channel documentary, which I highly recommend to anyone interested in this time period. It's called The Crusades: The Crescent and the Cross. I make reference of it in this chapter if you caught it.**

**Anyways, this is the history that I have changed to fit my story OR just a further explanation of what is happening:  
**

**(1) The Bishop of Beauvais was indeed a real man, and Conrad was a friend or at least friendly acquaintance of his. However, the Bishop and Conrad both lived in Tyre, but I needed to place Aliya in Jerusalem since that is where Malik lived and that is where Altair would go after he returned from Egypt. The Bishop did grant a divorce to Conrad's wife Isabella so that Conrad could marry her to gain the title of king of Jerusalem through marriage. However, it was not until April 1192 that Conrad was elected into the position. Soon after he had been elected, he had visited the Bishop of Beauvais home to have dinner, but found that the Bishop had already eaten. He headed home, only to be assassinated by two assassins (hm, foreshadowing? =) )**

**Also, I do not know if they would have allowed a Bishop to stay in Jerusalem since it was not under Crusader control in 1192, but in my story, they have sympathy and let the Bishop stay there in his imaginary church that I moved from Tyre to Jerusalem.  
**

**(2) During the Bishop secret meeting he talks about Saladin and King Richard fighting in Jaffa, which is a town further up the coastline from Jerusalem (refer to a map if you are curious). For those who do not know, the Third Crusade was King Richard's campaign to regain the Crusader's states from the enemy, of which Saladin was the head of. Richard had fought and pushed back the enemy towards Jerusalem (which was the main goal of the Crusade), and arrived in Jaffa in September of 1191-the town the Crusaders needed to take before heading to Jerusalem. Saladin attempts to hold him there, and it is in the Spring of 1192 that Richard realizes that perhaps he does not have enough troops to overtake Jerusalem. So he instead regroups back in Acre to perhaps leave room for another Crusade to happen from there. HOWEVER the armies continue to fight until they ultimately come to a standstill in a year later in September 1192 in which the Third Crusade will end in a truce. The Crusaders can keep the cities of Acre, Jaffa, Tyre, and Caesera but Saladin will keep Jerusalem. Saladin allows the movement of Christian pilgrims to the city. So in October 1192, Richard leaves the area to return to Europe, and within a few months in March 1193, Saladin dies. Which historians say that if Richard would have stayed in the area until that time, he could have used his enemies loss of their commander to overtake Jerusalem.**

**But it was not meant to be.**

**(3) I actually wasn't the one to change this next one, Ubisoft actually did it with their AC storyline, but technically in 1192, Robert de Sable was still the Grand Master of the Templars. However, since they killed him off, I couldn't keep him around, so I used Gilbert Horal which was the Grand Master after de Sable in 1193. I do not know if the Templars ever had temporary Grand Masters nor if Gilbert was his second in command, but I made it so for my own devices.  
**

**So now that you have had a bit of a history lesson and enjoyed yet another chapter of Impulsion, perhaps you should review, comment, or criticize me. It is all welcome as they will all make me a better writer and I oh so love receiving them!  
**

**Ahem, you know this was coming, so . . .  
**

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Assassin's Creed or any of the characters belonging to the series.**

_Crystal_**  
**


	4. Chapter 3

**Author's note is attached at the end, and I guess . . . enjoy =)**

* * *

**_Chapter 3_**

**_

* * *

_**_Jerusalem, 1192_

"I cannot give you a _girl_ for payment," the Bishop whispered loudly, sending cautious eyes to watch as his other dinner guests left the room to seek out their beds. "This is a human being we talk of! How can I _give_ you something I do not own?"

Conrad flicked his bored eyes to the Bishop. "She is a slave."

"Not since the day I brought her family to Jerusalem. The Church does not own slaves," the Bishop replied. "They are my servants."

"Servant or not, it is her I want," Conrad said. "You have no gold and nothing else you possess interests me. So what is it to be, Philip? Your _holy_ mission or the girl? Tyre is the ideal city for you. You said it yourself."

The Bishop wrung his hands together in contemplation. How could he promise another being's life to someone else? Could he do it? His answer was this: He would do it for his Lord. He could do it for the power of the Pieces of Eden.

The Bishop glanced up at Conrad. "She'll not come easily, you know. Aliya will not accept this, and will put up a great fight about leaving her family. She's a tad stubborn like that."

"I wouldn't have her any other way," Conrad replied, grinning.

* * *

The garden seemed strangely still and silent compared to how it had been just a few hours ago when it was filled with men's voices and laughter, servants' footsteps pattering back and forth in-between the kitchen, and even the clank of silverware against plates. Now, only the fountain made any noise with its soft trickling.

The servants, along with Aliya's parents, were in their beds already. The Bishop tended to rise early in the mornings, and expected his servants to follow his example. Usually, she would have been asleep by now, but she couldn't seem to ease her mind enough to lay still.

It was because of the flower.

Aliya twirled the large Iris blossom in her fingers, the long purple petals spinning and spinning until they threatened to fall. Stopping, she held it in her palm studying the yellow, blue, and white steaks sprouting from the middle. Wasim's gift was sweet, thoughtful, and . . . the sort of thing a man did for one he courted. Sighing, she placed it on the fountain's ledge beside her.

Wasim came to her mind quickly with his kind brown eyes, narrow face, and shaggy black hair. He was nothing extraordinary, but he was compassionate and understanding. Romantic even, Aliya added, staring hard at the flower he had left. So what was the matter with her? Why could she not just accept the inevitable? Her mother knew it was coming, and even her father had conceded that although he had not picked Wasim out for her, she could do no better than Rasha's older brother. Her brothers' would willingly accept Wasim, as they were all three friends since a young age.

It should feel perfect, but it didn't.

Her face fell as she stared at her reflection in the water. Green eyes looked back at her beneath the arches of her brown eyebrows. Her hair fell nearly to the middle of her back with a slight curl towards the ends. Typically, her full mouth fell into an easy smile, not on purpose, but just as a habit. However, tonight it remained straight and grim.

She was a recipe herself, she guessed, a mixture of different ingredients. Her mother had been European, and it was evident that her father had been a Muslim man. While she had the dark coloring of many Arabic women, she possessed the delicate bone structure that many of the European women. Even her green eyes seemed to tell her secret.

Muslim men wanted Muslim wives, and European men wanted European wives. She was neither, but then again she was either. It was a hard balance to understand, because while she looked mostly the part of an Arabic woman, the men knew she was not. There were some that would look pleasantly upon her, but that was all they would do. There were not many men willing to accept a mixed-breed wife.

Except Wasim.

Splashing her hand through the water, she erased her image from the water's surface. It was the merchants, the travelers, and the scholars that had made her this way—uneager to marry—she supposed. Their tales of faraway places, historical heroes, and tales of adventure had not helped her mother's attempt at training her for marriage and motherhood. Instead, she had spent her free time learning to read and write from the local scholars, discussing the movement of the world with the travelers, and listening to the merchants as they wove their tales of dangerous journeys for expensive products. She had dreamed of perhaps traveling the world herself, having an adventure of her own to tell before marrying, but as she grew older, the chances of those dreams were growing slim.

Although the daughter of slaves, she had led a fortunate life in the midst of violent times, but one couldn't have everything they dreamed of in life.

* * *

Wood scraped against stone as the men around the table pushed their chairs away, leaving their wine goblets for the servants to gather later. Such was the life of the wealthy. They shook hands, exchanged parting words, and then slowly begin to trickle out of the room en route for their beds. The candles were blown out, leaving the room dark. He waited a moment, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the lack of lighting.

Waiting, Altair stifled a yawn as he silently stretched his chest to relieve the tension, and decided that perhaps it was time that he return to the Bureau to update Malik on the information he had gathered from tonight's meeting. Notes would be taken, discussions and arguments made, and finally they would decide the Brotherhood's next move. Eventually, he would be able to reclaim his place among the pillows and sleep in peace without the disturbing bells tolling about for hours.

Once he was confident enough about his vision, he started retracing his footsteps towards the Bishop's office. Luck must have been on his side, as no one came across his path, and he effortlessly slipped into the Bishop's office. Taking one longing glance at the flimsy lock that guarded the Bishop's correspondence, Altair climbed out of the window into the night.

* * *

Aliya picked up the flower once more and sighed. Perhaps she should marry. Perhaps it could be Wasim. Perhaps she could be a wife and a mother.

It was all that she was willing to admit at that moment.

She sat there for a few minutes, closing her eyes, content on listening to the water spill over the edges of the fountain into the pool below. The night was silent beyond that small interruption. A few more minutes and—

It was probably just her imagination, but Aliya _felt_ as if something was watching her. Or someone. Her eyes looked about the empty courtyard. Paranoid, she looked closely at the shadows. Although she found nothing or no one, it was hard to shake the feeling of being watched away. It clung to her, breaking through the calmness that had enveloped her moments before. She stood up, paying close attention to the walls that surrounded the garden. Her attention was so focused on the walls that she barely noticed the figure coming through the kitchen entrance.

"It is a pleasant night, is it not?"

His voice grated against her nerves, and she quickly stood as he walked towards her. She could not run or walk away from Conrad, because he was a guest in her master's home. "Do you need anything, sir?" she asked, making her voice calm and even as not to portray how much this man bothered her with his stares. "Wine? A snack?"

Chuckling, Conrad stepped closer, which in the dim lighting of the moonlight made it easier to see his face. "No . . . thank you, though," he said, his voice oddly amused. "I couldn't sleep and I noticed a shadow out here in the moonlight. However, I did not expect to find such a beautiful night owl out here."

Aliya nodded her head in acknowledgement. "Well I have never been compared to an owl, but perhaps that is a compliment where you are from. Good night then." She attempted to move past him, but he clamped onto her upper arm, holding her in place.

"Aliya," he said, and she hated the sound of her name on his lips, "we seem to have started off the wrong foot, so to say. I would like for us to get along."

It sounded like a cruel joke to her ears, but she could not manage a polite laugh. She looked at him out of the corner of her eye, realizing that he was staring right at her. "I am sorry if I have insulted you, sir," she replied. It was the best she could do, and she moved to wrench her arm from his grasp. He held on tightly.

"You have not insulted me," he whispered now. His mouth was very close to her ear, and she felt the air from his mouth touch her skin. She cringed. "No, Aliya, you please me greatly."

"Let me go," Aliya demanded, any kindness she had inserted into her voice was gone now. He trailed a finger alongside the skin of her neck, causing her to move her upper body away quickly. She glared into his eyes. "I will scream if you do not let me go."

"Is this how you treat all men? So much hostility. I will have to rid you of that habit." He grinned. "I look forward to the first time I visit your bed, sweet."

Aliya was not stupid when it came to sexual overtures. She opened her mouth to scream, thinking it the best way to stop his advances without having to injure one of the Bishop's guests. However, as soon as her mouth opened, his mouth swooped down to capture her lips. Her scream was muted. Struggling, she beat her fists on his back, but he would not release her. When his tongue attempted to enter her mouth, she bit down hard. He roared with pain, pulling back from her.

She immediately turned to run back to the kitchen door, praying that someone might still be awake or heard them out in the garden.

"You bitch!" he loudly whispered, but because of the pain, it came out sounding, "Ew 'itch!"

The sound of heavy footsteps behind Aliya spurred her on, but she tripped on her own feet, pitching her forward. He caught up to her, wrapping an arm around her midriff and lifting her off the ground. She attempted to escape, causing him to lose his balance. He danced around trying to stabilize himself, but holding her wriggling form caused them both to crash hard against the ground.

Aliya's head ricocheted off the stones, causing stars and dots to dance before her eyes. Her back ached where it had landed heavily against the hard surface. She groaned as she tried to sit up, but Conrad was there before she could, straddling her midriff as he tried to clear his own stars and dots.

"I cannot wait to get you to Tyre," he gritted between his teeth, touching his fingers gently to a nasty looking scrape on his temple. "You will soon regret doing that, I can promise you." Aliya said nothing but lay there impassively beneath him trying to figure out what he had meant by _'wait to get you to Tyre'_. She opened her mouth to ask a question when Conrad clamped his fingers around her wrist like a manacle, jerking her upright with him. He brought her face close to his. "You will not make a sound when we go inside otherwise I will slit your throat, and damned those Pieces of Eden. You're coming to my chamber for the night so I can ensure that you will not run away."

_No._ She pulled viciously on her arm, but it accomplished nothing except to cause her to grind her teeth at the pain of it.

"Stay still!" he growled. "I will teach you who lies beneath who, Aliya. Tonight you will finally understand who is master."

"I will never be your whore," she told him, spitting into his eyes. Another growl emitted from the back of his throat as he wiped her saliva off his face. "I would rather die."

"Then you will," he responded. "After I am finished with you, I will gladly slit that pretty little neck of yours."

A strange sensation swept through her veins. It was unlike any feeling she had ever experienced. Thoughts, rationalization—anything other than the urgent call for survival—diminished. Conrad was pulling her, tugging at her as they neared the kitchen entrance. Her heart was like a drum beating a steady rhythm in her chest. Her body and mind felt unattached as her eyes located the glint of a dagger on his belt. She watched her hand reach out and grasp the hilt of it, pulling it quickly before he could stop her. He turned quickly, and upon seeing the weapon in her hands, moved to disarm her. Her hand reached up and deflected the maneuver, turning her body to thrust her elbow upwards into his nose. He cried out, cupping his hands around his nose as blood ran down over his mouth.

Aliya watched her hands and body move in what seemed like a synchronized dance, but the problem was that she did not command her hands to move that way or her body to turn this way. It felt as if she was a spectator and not the participant.

He dropped his hands, attempting to protect himself as the hand that held the dagger came shooting forward in a feint attack, but just as quickly came forward once more, slicing a clean crimson line along his throat.

Blood fell like velvet curtains down his neck, until he dropped to his knees before her.

The beating drum of her heart led up to a crescendo as her breath came out in small gasps and her hand dropped the dagger. Metal clanged against the stones, splattering his blood in a chaotic pattern. Blood still poured from his neck and now came from his mouth, staining the ground under him.

A deafening roar erupted in her ears, so she neither heard or saw the shadowed figure move from the top of the wall and into the courtyard. She simply stared at Conrad's still form, trying to still her shaking hands. What had she done? Drawing her eyes away, she spotted the movement of candlelight in the upper hallways, and panic increased tenfold as she tried to figure out what she could say. _Oh, God._

"If you want to live, you are going to have to start moving," a voice whispered from behind her. It was deep—a man's voice—slightly tinged with sarcasm. Turning quickly, she saw a white hooded figure standing there. The dark night and the shadows of his hood made it impossible for her to see his face.

"I—I don't—" she stumbled around the words trying to figure out something to say to explain. Had this stranger seen what happened? "I didn't mean to do this. I swear upon my own life, I never meant to kill him."

Now, voices were coming from the rooms and doors could be heard as they were opened and shut. Footsteps were coming down staircases, and Aliya threw a terrified look towards the doors that led out to the garden. She looked back at the stranger, seeing that he was assessing the sounds coming from the house also. He turned his head towards her, and she heard his quiet command, "Then run."

He took off fast in one direction, towards the surrounding walls. "Are you coming?" he called over his shoulder. It took a moment for Aliya to push herself and follow, for she had no idea what she was doing. No idea how she would explain how she was able to slit Conrad's throat. It was still a mystery to her. What had come over her? The fear of not being heard, not being able to explain, but instead judged on the spot was a terrifying thought. And so, she ran. Her gait was hindered as she kept peering back to see if anyone had come out of the doors.

They would know it was her eventually. The servants and the guests would account for themselves and others, and finally, her family would announce that she was missing. It was only common sense to label the one who runs as the murder.

Suddenly, the wooden door cracked against the stone façade of the house as people poured into the courtyard. She pumped her arms harder, trying to make her legs reach the wall faster, where the white clad figure was crouched waiting for her. Her dark hair was streaming behind her, and her footsteps clicking against the ground beneath her. Coming up on the wall, she threw up her arm and jumped. His hand secured hers and pulled her up.

Their faces were drawn together, and for a moment, she locked her eyes on to his. Brown eyes the color of rusted gold. They fairly glowed through the black night. Her eyes flicked down to see the scar crossing the right side of his lips. The assassin.

"It's you," she said, as he pulled her to a standing position. "You're the—"

"Assassin," he finished for her. "Yet, it seems that you are the one that have done the killing tonight. If you want to escape this alive, you're going to have move faster," he chastised, pulling away.

She glanced over to the group that now surrounded Conrad's body, and saw the identifiable silhouettes of her parents. Her father's tall form with hunched shoulders and the woman that stood wrapped in his arms had her mother's long dark braid. Aliya could pick them out even from a distance. She looked back to where the assassin had last stood only to see that he was off in the distance running along the wall's ledge towards the church.

As Aliya hurried after him, her mind echoed the proverb that she had been taught from a young age. _Respect the assassins, but never trust them_. Citizens had long repeated this mantra as the soaring figures in white started making their appearances among their cities. While they claimed to bring peace to the land, their blades did not always come away with guilty blood. Yet, as she heard the cries of her name and the accusations of "_Murderer!"_ echoing into the night, she had no choice but follow him. Survival, it was all that matter at this point.

* * *

_Never compromise the Brotherhood._

Altair glanced over his shoulder to see the servant girl stumbling along the rooftops, trying to keep up with him. He was no stranger to breaking the Assassin's Creed, but before it had been a case of arrogance and ignorance. However, by bringing a civilian to the Assassin's Bureau he was potentially putting his brothers in danger. Malik would be furious when he discovered her among the pillows of the main chamber, but Altair could not erase the image of her struggling with the large figure of Conrad, trying to escape her impending rape.

He had been sneaking out of the window, and was moving stealthy across the wall towards the grand church when he heard a man's voice in the garden. At first, Altair thought he was being addressed, but then he heard a quiet woman's voice respond. Curious, Altair hid himself, listening and watching. He chanted to himself repeatedly that he should not be involved, and managed not to, until Conrad had overpowered the girl and began pulling her towards the home. Cursing himself for having the hero complex that always sent him rescuing threatened civilians, he ran back across the wall, and jumped off into the courtyard. His quiet rapid footsteps making their way quickly towards them.

The only thing that caused him to pause was the sheer beauty in the way she had stolen his dagger, blocked his attack—the grace in the way she smashed her elbow into his nose—and then slicing the blade against the skin of Conrad's throat.

He slowed his movements, warily approaching her now. Her fingers released the dagger, dropping it onto the stones beneath her, and her gasping breath came in short, heavy bursts. Shock. It wasn't the sort of things trained killers often experienced, but he kept his distance nonetheless. He had stopped, thinking about turning back, but . . . well, Altair wasn't sure why he had intervened, saving her from discovery, but it was too late to turn back now.

The bells had not yet been rung, which would alert the city of potential danger, still giving them some secrecy to their movements as they made their way towards the Bureau. Even the guards were not aware of the killer sneaking above them, however, as the girl tripped, almost sending herself into the streets below, Altair wondered if she would escape this after all. She silently fought to pull herself up, finally rolling onto the roof's surface.

Still moving, he scanned the rooftops, watching for the guards that patrolled the skyline for assassins and thieves that utilized the usually abandoned roofs for their own advantages. Seeing none, he charged ahead, choosing a path that was easier for the girl to follow. They were close now, only a few more buildings and they would be standing on the Bureau.

He leaped across a large gap in between the buildings, clearing the obstacle easily. Altair turned to see his shadow coming closer, and was pleased that she seemed to be moving faster than before. As soon as she reached the building across from him, hesitation written clearly on her face, he opened his mouth to instruct her on how to make the jump, but before he could, the bells began to ring. Their chimes reached the entire city, alerting other bell ringers to do the same.

Time was short now.

Altair looked towards her once more. "The guards will be looking more closely for you. Just step back, and push with your legs. You have to angle your body so that you are jumping more forward than up. Can you do it?"

Saying nothing, she stepped back a few steps, before launching herself forward, barely touching her feet to the edge of the roof. He caught her hand, saving her once more. Ducking her head, she charged forward.

He caught up to her easily, passing her within seconds. Altair knew she was pushing herself, but as the streets below them came to life with guards and civilians, he had to stamp down any sympathy he had for her as he continued. It was either move or die, and he didn't prefer the latter for either of them.

The hiss of the arrow came too quickly for Altair to call out warning. He spun around seeing an arrow barely miss her right leg. He didn't have to urge her from there, because she came rushing forward.

"Stop, murderer!" the yells came from behind them. "Assassin!" There were two guards behind them, shooting their arrows as they were in pursuit. An arrow zoomed in between them, the heat of its movement brushing past his ear. The _zings_ of more arrows coming and the closing distance between them and the Bureau, caused him to wrap his hands around two throwing knives, but before he could turn to throw them, an arrow shot straight through his shoulder. He gritted his teeth for a moment, fighting off the pain, and then turned quickly, sending the knives spinning through the air. They hit true in the guards' chests.

Altair looked over at the servant girl, her eyes on the arrow that was sticking out from his shoulder. "Keep moving," he said. "Just keep moving."

They came to the Bureau's entrance, Altair all but pushing her down into the hole. His shoulder was burning like hell, and he had no patience for theatrics if she refused to go down. Once he heard her land among the pillows, he dropped down himself.

The dim lighting of the main chamber, the feel of soft pillows beneath his feet, and the sound of running water from the fountain . . . Altair sighed with relief.

That was until he heard a very annoyed voice asking, "What have you done, Altair?"

* * *

_The plan was compromised. The girl had vanished along with the Assassin. _

_No matter the costs, he would have his revenge._

_

* * *

_**{a/n} If I thought the last chapter was hard to write, well, I was kidding myself. I do not know how many pages of stuff I have written for this chapter, but I would sincerely guess at least 30. Nothing just sounded _right_ for Aliya or Altair, but luckily yesterday I had a breakthrough by moving the Aliya/Conrad interaction outside instead of in the dining room where I was originally going to have it. After that, it all came together. Anyways, the main concerns that I have are perhaps grammar errors, so I apologize for that. I have put a lot of hours into writing this chapter, that I only proofread it twice [ducks all the rocks and rotten tomatoes coming my way]. I was just anxious to get it up! And lastly, there might by some questions on why some things are happening, and perhaps what is going on with mysterious italicized parts, but all I am going to say is be patient. The plot is thickening and it will all come together. Promise =)**

**And by the looks of how the past 4 entries have been, I would say that I will probably update at least once a week, and the chapters have been anywhere from 4,203 and 5,137 words. If this seems too long, let me know!  
**

**And as for the death of Conrad, well, he was a jerk [in my story] anyways so I was happy to kill him off. However, like I said in the previous chapter, he was really killed by two assassins after leaving the Bishop of Beauvais' (Philip) home in April 1192. Just trying to keep your facts straight.**

**So . . . that's chapter 3. I would really, really, really appreciate some reviews on what has happened so far, if you think Altair is too much out of character, what you think of Aliya, and all that jazz. Basically, I am begging for some more reviews or asking to be flamed . . . however you want to look at it. There have been a lot of hits and visitors according to my traffic thing, but not many reviews. If you love it, let me know! If you hate it, let me know. take note of no exclamation point at the end of that last one, but seriously, who get's excited to get the hate reviews, but alas, I am asking for them.  
**

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Assassin's Creed or any of the characters belonging to the series. They are property of Ubisoft.  
**

_Crystal_**  
**


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